Israel (55 page)

“Oh, please,” Becky gasped, breathless with anxiety, “the personnel department?”

The light died in the older woman's eyes. “Straight back, sweetie, just after Domestics. When you get there you can follow the thundering herd.”

“You mean, somebody's here before me?”

“You poor kids.” The woman clucked sympathetically. “Go on, you've no chance at all standing here.”

“Thanks,” Becky called, hurrying off. In Domestics a woman dusting throw pillows directed her to a set of double doors marked “employees only.” Becky pushed through into pandemonium.

At least a hundred and fifty women from adolescents to grandmothers were crowded in like cattle in a box car, chattering to each other as they filled out applications with pencils tethered to clipboards. There were only three short rows of folding chairs and the women who'd claimed them showed no signs of budging. A woman tapped Becky on the shoulder and thrust a clipboard into her hands.

“Fill it out and wait till you're called,” she said, her eyes darting past Becky toward the two women who had just come through the double doors behind her. “Move to the front,” she ordered. “Make way for the rest.”

At the opposite end of the room a bald, fat, weary-looking man in a three-piece suit sat behind a desk smoking a cigar. “It's three o'clock,” the man called out, his tone harried. “I'll be interviewing those with experience first.”

This is hopeless, Becky thought. I don't have a chance. She began to burn with humiliation, pondering how naive she must have seemed to that floor supervisor—“. . . Somebody here before me?”

Furious, she bore down hard with her pencil as she began to fill in the application. Before she had finished printing her name the lead point broke. She looked around for the woman in charge of the clipboards and noticed a young man carrying a sign under his arm come from an interior office. The sign was of similar size and shape to the one Becky had seen in the store's front window. She craned her neck, trying to read what it said. “Shipping,” “wanted” and “apply” were the only words she could decipher before he was past her.

She made her decision in an instant and dropped her clipboard to the floor to stride out of bedlam. There was no point in waiting around here; they'd fill the job before they ever got to her.

She made her way to the basement, past House Furnishings and through the dented steel doors to shipping.

It was a man's job she was going after, of course. A woman had no more business working in inventory or on the loading docks than a man had on the sales floor, but down here at least she could talk to the man who ran the department. If she talked fast, perhaps she could demonstrate her knowledge of ledgers, of packing and unpacking goods—if he'd just give her the chance she'd lift something for him and her best dress be damned. She lifted heavy boxes in the store all the time, especially since her father's heart condition was worse. She doubted that Malden's sold anything much heavier than a cardboard carton containing three dozen ten-and-a-half-ounce cans of condensed soup.

The shipping and loading areas, which were closed to the public, differed greatly from the rest of the store. Here illumination was provided by bare bulbs encased in wire,
and the institutional green paint on the cinder block walls was chipped and peeling. Wooden pallets of goods were stacked to the ceiling. The loading bays, where the trucks pulled in, were up ahead. Becky heard the lusty shouts of men calling and joking with one another. These were men who relied on the strength of their backs to earn a living. They swore, they spat; they probably forgot women existed for the eight-hour workday.

Of course Becky knew she had one chance in a million of getting a shipping clerk's job. Even if by some miracle she managed to persuade the supervisor to hire her, management still had to agree to it. No, she was over-optimistic; her chances were closer to one in a billion.

But at least she would have the satisfaction of knowing that she'd tried everything. For the past couple of days she'd been able to entertain a wonderful dream of breaking free of the Cherry Street Market and starting an exciting new life of her own. That had ended now, but even if she did have to admit to failure, she was going to try everything.

“Hey, lady, you ain't supposed to be back here.”

Becky ignored the shout and hurried toward the wide open bays of the loading dock. She saw two men talking as workers hurried to unload the cargo from several trucks backed up to the docks. One of them was older-looking and had close-cropped reddish-brown hair and silver-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in sturdy work clothes and a necktie. Holding a clipboard he unconcernedly puffed away on a briar pipe. Becky had spent enough time at the grocery wholesalers to recognize the boss when she saw him.

It was the man he was talking to Becky couldn't place. He was in his early thirties, of middling height and wearing a splendid tweed suit with pleated trousers and a jacket with a belt in the back. He was clean-shaven, but even from a distance Becky could discern the blue-black shadow of his heavy beard along the strong line of his jaw.
His hair was charmingly tousled, thick and black. There was a glossy sheen to it beneath the overhead lights.

He's got to be a salesman, Becky decided. Nobody employed at Malden's five-and-dime could possibly earn enough to afford a suit like that.

At that moment the well-dressed man noticed her. His hazel eyes stared into hers for a moment. He smiled and tapped the pipe smoker on the shoulder, pointing in her direction.

The manager glanced her way, did a double take and stared. “You shouldn't be around here, miss. Did you lose your way?”

Becky took a step forward. “Hold it right there,” the manager squawked. “Don't come past that there yellow line painted on the floor. There's heavy loads here. This is no place for a woman.”

Oh, God, Becky thought. All around was the noise of bantering men, thudding boxes, idling truck motors. A driver, grown impatient, began to lean on his horn.

“Hey, I think you've scared her,” the man in the suit chided the manager.

“No, I'm not scared,” Becky shouted, trying to make her voice carry over the commotion. “I've come to apply for the job.”

Suddenly there was silence all around as the men stopped what they were doing. She could feel them staring at her. Only the impatient truck driver, who'd not heard, continued to lean on his horn. “Cut that,” the man in the suit commanded. The honking ceased.

“Honestly, mister,” Becky said to the manager, “I can handle this kind of work.” She realized that she was still shouting, and lowered her tone. “I mean, if you needed someone to sort out the manifests or—”

Behind her, someone had started to laugh. “Yeah, Charlie, why don't you hire her? We wouldn't mind a skirt around the place.”

Others joined in the laughter. Becky felt herself blushing, and cursed everything—emotions, gender, parents—that a person could not control.

“Hey.” The man in the suit swept his hazel eyes around the room and the laughter died down. He regarded Becky. “Come here.”

Becky cautiously eyed the supervisor, but his downcast expression combined with his sudden preoccupation with his pipe told her that in this particular instance he was not in charge.

As Becky approached, the other man cocked his index finger in her direction. “Ain't you Abie Herodetzky's little girl?”

“She ain't little no more,” one of the workmen cracked.

“Hey, wiseacre,” the man snapped, “get back to work.”

“Yeah, everyone, back at it!” the supervisor echoed. He nodded at Becky. “You'll see to the young lady and show her out?”

“Yeah, Max. Don't worry about it, all right?” He turned to Becky as Max walked off. “You shouldn't put Max on the spot like that. He's okay, but he can't hire you. You gotta understand that—” he closed his eyes, snapping his fingers, “—Rebecca, right?” When she nodded, he continued, “Yeah. Becky, they call you. I never forget a name, not when it belongs to somebody in the neighborhood.”

“Why don't I recognize you?”

“Well, I've only been in a few times, buying smokes or chewing gum, you know? Anyway, usually I come by when your father's around. We discuss business.”

“With my father?” Becky asked, puzzled. “What sort of business are you in?”

“Trucking,” he said smugly, rocking on the heels of
his two-tone suede bucks, his hands thrust into his pants pockets.

Becky giggled. “You mean, ‘trucking' like in dancing?”

He laughed. “Right, trucking.” He launched into a finger-waving, hip-rolling dance step, his two-tones moving quick as lightning across the rough concrete flooring of the loading dock. Becky offered a mile-wide smile in appreciation.

“Oh, yeah,” he grinned. “You an alligator?”

“What?”

“You cut the rug? Jitterbug?”

Becky's mind went blank. “I listen to the swing on the radio.”

He stopped dancing. “Just listening to it on the radio ain't no good, Becky. You have to experience swing. You like to dance?”

“I never went,” she admitted. In front of this handsome man it seemed a shameful confession.

“You want to go with me?”

This is flirting, Becky numbly realized. He's asking me—me!—out on a date. She stared into his eyes, locking his gaze, because his tawny eyes were lovely and because she didn't want him glancing down to notice that she was wearing brown shoes with a blue dress.

“I'm a stand-up guy, Becky,” he said quickly, evidently mistaking her confused hesitation for reluctance. “You see them trucks?” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “They're mine. And I got plenty more like 'em.”

“Is that how you know my father?” Becky cut in. “Because your trucks have made deliveries to the market?”

“Yeah, sorta like that.”

“I don't know why I've never seen you then,” Becky mused. “I mean, you look familiar, but I'm sure I've never seen you in the store.”

“Like I said, you've never been there when I stopped
by. Anyway, what brought you to Malden's in the first place? Why'd you ever think you'd get hired as a shipping clerk?”

The date! Becky silently pleaded to him. Ask me out again on the date! Oh, why had she hesitated in the first place?

“I originally came to get a part-time sales job, but there were too many applying, and they wanted experienced help.” She shrugged.

“So you thought you could jive your way into the shipping department.” He shook his head in admiration. “Listen, the guy who was doing the interviewing, was he bald and fat?”

“Yes, and smoking a cigar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded. “That's Wilkie.” He winked at Becky. “Mr. Wilkerson to you. He's just a flunky. We'll go through him the way a hot knife cuts through butter. I'll telephone Pinckameyer—”

“Who's that?” Becky asked. The date—the date, she willed him. She'd already picked her dress for the big night.

“Pinkie's a big shot at Malden's,” he explained. “He'll see to it that you're hired.”

“What?” Becky wondered if she'd heard right. “Me? Hired?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “You come back here tomorrow to see Wilkie—Wilkerson, right? The guy with the cigar. You just tell me what schedule you want to work. It'll go smooth as glass, I promise.”

“But they want experienced help.”

“Hey, you work in your pop's store, right? That's experience. That's how I learned everything, working for my pop.”

“They'll listen to you? I don't mean to doubt you, mister—” She realized that she didn't know his name.

“Benny Talkin. Call me Benny. Don't you worry.
Jews help Jews. They'll listen to me. I do a lot of transport business for these people. They don't make me happy, my trucks don't roll, and that means empty shelves for Malden's. Get it?”

“Got it.” Becky grinned.

“Come on.” Benny began walking her toward the steel doors that led out to the basement sales floor. “You gotta get going. I've still got some things to discuss with Max.”

“It'll be all right? The job, I mean—”

“Piece of cake.”

“You'll call—whoever it was you said you'd call—?”

“You come see Wilkerson tomorrow afternoon. Tell him when you want to start; it's as simple as that.” He held open the door for her.

“I don't know how to thank you.”

“Anything for Abie Herodetzky's daughter.”

Becky chuckled ruefully. “Now I just have to get my father to let me work here.”

“You mean he doesn't know?”

“Uh-uh.”

“You'll have to finagle that on your lonesome. Now beat it.”

Becky felt a pat on her haunch and then she was through the doorway alone, managing only a quick final glimpse of tweed stretched across Benny's broad shoulders before the dented steel doors swung shut.

She floated home on a cloud, feeling as if a handsome archangel had swooped down on indomitable wings to lay miracles at her feet.

The job! Tomorrow she would have the job!

Tomorrow night she would have to break the news to her father, but for now she was entitled to savor her exultation. And so she would. There'd be no clouds in her sky at all if only Benny Talkin had thought to ask her out that crucial second time.

*     *     *

The next afternoon she put on the same dress and shoes and returned to Malden's personnel department. As soon as she'd identified herself to Mr. Wilkerson he handed her some papers to fill in and asked her when she wanted to start. Any time and any schedule was fine with him.

Becky chose Monday, Wednesday and Thursday afternoons from three till closing and all day Saturday. When she thanked Wilkerson he scowled suspiciously; Benny Talkin's intercession had offended the personnel manager. Once again she thanked him, doing her best to show her gratitude for the chance he was giving her. When Wilkerson saw that she meant it he took the cigar from his mouth long enough to smile and say she was welcome.